Dear Santa, I Can Explain
by casus17
Summary: Twas the night before Christmas, plus a few days, and over in a cemetery, one Winchester was in a haze. For he was looking down on his own heaped body, and yet he wasn't dead. No, it was something ghostly, and pastly, way over his head.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural, Christmas, the Ghost of Christmas Past, or even the title, cause I stole it from a t-shirt.

**Author's Note:** Don't worry, I'm still going to post for In A Heart of Darkness tonight, but I got this idea a few days ago and just had to write it. I saw the t-shirt with ' Dear Santa… I can explain' on it, at work (cause we all have to wear Christmas t-shirts), and thought, wow, that could be funny… well, this is what came out. See what you think.

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DEAR SANTA, I CAN EXPLAIN

_Twas the night before Christmas (plus a few days) and all was at rest._

_For twas the time of night when the most sane are in bed._

_But wait, there are the Winchesters, as usual, doing their best._

_For some little monster/ghost/beastie refuses to stay dead._

_So read, and like, and think of this not just as jest._

_Else we'll never get this tale, out of my head._

* * *

Dean met the wall of the mausoleum really, _really_ hard, and had time to think, _Ouch_ before he slid really, _really_ deeply into unconsciousness.

He didn't see Sam crying out his name as he raced for where his older brother lay sprawled on the soft, wet ground. Didn't see Sam shooting the pissed off spirit, didn't see him changing direction really, _really_ fast, racing for the corpse they had just finished, ah, (cough) exhuming. Didn't see him drowning the body, then smothering it in salt, didn't see him using Dean's latest lighter to set the bastard on fire. Didn't hear the spirit dying really, _really_ loudly.

In fact the next thing he saw was – _oh fucking shit_ – his own body in a heap, on the ground, blood seeping from what looked like a really, _really_ bad head wound.

"Well, this can't be good," he muttered to himself as Sam slid to the ground, taking his big brother in his arms, holding on, inches from panic. He could see Sam's lips moving, eyes tight, but he couldn't hear his little brother.

Then a voice spoke from behind him, achingly familiar.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," the voice told him, and he strained to remember where he had heard it without turning around.

"So, death isn't much to worry about then?" he asked, still staring down, fascinated, at his own body.

"It would be if you were dead, Dean."

He turned to see his ghostly visitor, speaking as he did. "So, I'm not…"

His sentence trailed off as he finally caught sight of the speaker, his throat constricting, eyes going wide, mouth dropping, tears very nearly welling.

"Oh my God, Jessica."

The small blonde smiled at him slowly. "Nice to see you too, Dean."

He had to take a step back. "Okay… So, I _know_ this isn't another djinn episode… if I'm not dead… what the hell are you doing here?"

"What, no small talk?" she asked with a grin. Then she became serious quickly. "Come on, Dean. Think. Sam reckons you're a smart guy."

He crossed his arms, quickly getting accustomed to having his brother's dead girlfriend talking with him while they both stared down at his not-so-dead body. God, his life was weird.

"Look, as you can see, I just hit my head really badly… Thus the whole, thinking I'm dead thing, you know. So if I'm not dead, and you are, why are you here talking to me?"

"I'm here to show you your mistakes," she told him matter-of-factly. Dean groaned, disbelieving.

"Oh God, shoot me now. I've got ghosts coming to show me my mistakes? You've got to be freaking kidding me." He folded his arms stubbornly, and she grinned knowingly at him. "I don't make mistakes, not ones that deserve this whole, past, present, future deal. Besides it's not even Christmas yet. You're early by about three days."

She waved her hand. "Details. Anyway, do I look like your typical Ghost of Christmas Past."

He took her in, long, flowing nightgown, silk, a little too reminiscent of the one his mother had been wearing when they had seen her in Lawrence. He cocked his head. "Not quite."

She grinned at him. "I guess you could call me the Ghost of Christmas Past. The timing's convenient. In fact, Christmas is about the only time of the year I can get out and do this. The time of year any of us can get out and do this. Magic's in the air. But mainly I'm here just to help you, not to save your Christmas. This is bigger than that."

"So what, you're going to show me what a naughty boy I've been, give me some epiphany, and let me go on my merry way."

She scowled at him, clearly amused at the same time. "Dean, for a hunter, you're quite the sceptic. For your information, you haven't been a naughty boy. You kill evil, you're a good man… but on the scale of things, the mistake I'm here to show you means the end of the world as we know it."

His jaw dropped again. "You're kidding me? Hey, whatever I did -."

She cut him off. "Whatever you did? Try whatever you're doing. Whatever you're going to do. Past, present and future. It all comes into account. And now here I am to show you what an ass you're being." She cocked her head to look at him. "But I guess we can start with the what you did part."

She snapped her fingers.

* * *

Once his stomach had settled, Dean opened his eyes to snow and dark, breathing heavily…

And ducking to avoid the small person being thrown his way.

"Jesus, where did you bring me? And why?" he demanded of Jessica, feeling her presence beside him. "This is a load of bull, I haven't made any monumental mistakes."

She practically sneered down at him. "Stand up straight, Dean. You can't get hurt here. It's just a memory."

He scowled at her, seeming to remember a sweeter, less aggressive girl. Granted he had only known her for about five seconds (not including that whole djinn thing, cause that had just been a dream, more or less), but this Jessica wasn't exactly the one that came out in all of Sam's recounting.

But he stood up straight, seeing the sense of her argument, and looked around, answering his own question immediately. He knew exactly where, and when they were.

It was 1996, and he was seventeen, having the best time of his life. Well, not now, not as he took three shots at a black dog and missed its heart each time. His past-self swore loudly, making the young woman – she had been twenty-four then – look up in shock at him, stunned by his language, no matter that he had just saved her life.

And then he gave a yelp as the small person ran through him, and he realized that it wasn't a small person, it was a thirteen-year-old Sam, carrying a shotgun awkwardly. Dean's heart softened as he remembered that bit too.

"I remember this hunt," he muttered quietly, but stopped when Jessica shushed him.

"Just watch," she ordered.

Past-Sam ran in, sliding to a halt in the snow and pulling the shotgun up. It was only rock salt, and it wouldn't kill the black dog, but the young teenager knew it would distract the mongrel from setting on his older brother.

The shot rang in the frigid winter air, and the black dog yelped, before spinning and barrelling towards past-Sam.

The kid obviously swallowed, trying to reload the gun with only one arm in full use. Both watchers could see Sam's face visibly tighten, shaking, paling, working past the pain… but he couldn't get the cartridges in on time.

The black dog tackled him, and Sam was buried in snow and black fur.

Past-Dean cried out, picking himself up from the snow, ignoring his bloody shoulder but wincing as he lifted the gun up. Then he cursed again, and dropped his arm, unable to get a clear shot with his brother pinned underneath the damn monster. Instead, he ran in, taking a swinging kick at the black dog's ribs.

Something cracked, and the dog yelped again, shying to the side as Dean's foot went back for another kick. It backed off slightly, growling, as Dean helped his little brother up, not hearing or seeing the kid's wince as he moved his left arm.

Then, before either teenager could move, the dog lunged.

Sam moved the fastest out of the two humans, eyebrows going up, and pushing Dean to the side as the black dog stormed their way in a flurry of snow and saliva. Dean gave a grunt as he landed on a tree root, a curse as he realized he had dropped his gun, with the silver bullets, and then another curse as he realized the black dog had chosen its victim. Him.

He scrambled to his feet, the gun impossible to see in the dark, even against the snow. Not in the limited time he had before the black dog was on him.

It slobbered towards him, eyes glinting angrily, and he backed away, swallowing, his only good thought that at least it hadn't gone after Sam.

And then he jumped as two more shots sounded out in the air, and the black dog keeled over with the impact of silver bullets hitting its side.

But it still wasn't dead. It staggered to its feet, turning slowly towards Sam where he held the smoking gun. Dean, the older Dean, could clearly remember the look on his little brother's face, the one that, at the time, had made him so proud. The clear, calm, distant look of a hunter, the relaxed, arrogant face, the one of the kid who had lost his childhood and innocence long before he even knew what they were.

Still insanely calm, Sam stayed rooted to where he was, gun still up, unmoving, not even shaking. He waited, patient, waited for the dog to come to him.

Five feet away, the black dog jumped and a single shot rang clearly and instantly in the night air. The dog died just as instantly, life dimming as it tumbled to the ground, sliding to a halt at Sam's feet.

The world shifted, seemed to pause, and then faded, as Jessica turned to Dean.

"So you remember this hunt?" she asked him, and Dean, future Dean, nodded, turning to face her.

"I remember. Dad was out on some other trip. It was just me and Sam when we got wind of the black dog. We thought we could handle it."

"And could you?" she asked, clearly already knowing the answer.

Dean thought about it for a moment. "A woman's life was saved, and Dad was still pissed. Mainly because I got my shoulder torn up, and Sam broke his arm in that hunt."

She grinned. "And he never told you, did he. You realized it a day later when Sam dropped the kettle."

He looked into her eyes and shook his head, frowning. "No, he didn't tell us. How did you know that? He never spoke to you about hunting."

"Because I know everything you know, Dean. What, you think I'm actually a spirit? Maybe I'm just your subconscious, showing you the things you need to realize it. You know all this, already, Dean. You're just a bit of an idiot. So why do you think you handled that hunt just fine?"

He frowned. "Handle it? Are you kidding me? We were nearly killed. Dad nearly made that nearly not so nearly."

She sighed, losing her smile. "You handled it Dean. You and Sam. You saved that woman's life. Because you worked together, you and Sam, you're a team. You need each other."

He frowned. "What are you getting at?" he asked slowly. Her slow smile was sad.

"You'll see." And she snapped her fingers.

* * *

"Christ," he muttered, standing up straight, waiting for his stomach to settle. "Is there no way to make that easier?"

"Suck it up, hunter," Jessica told him with absolutely no sympathy. "Else you're going to miss the important stuff."

He glared at her, all too willing at the moment to believe she came from his very own subconscious. He couldn't imagine Sam with someone so abrasive.

"Maybe that's what he found so endearing," she spoke from behind him, and he turned to look at her, confused.

"What do you mean?" he demanded, and she chuckled.

"Sam grew up with a brother who took no shit. With a father with no time for idiots. He's not about to go for anyone with their head in the clouds. Now watch."

He scowled at her again, but turned back to the front – or what he assumed was the front – in time to see everything come into focus.

His heart gave a strong throb and then nearly stopped.

The memory wasn't exactly the present, but he guessed it was close enough. And it made everything clear, everything about why Jessica was here, talking to him.

His not-so-past self stood, anxious, tired, stressed, the signs of sobbing clear. He spun in every direction, looking down each road, frantically waiting.

Waiting for the Crossroads Demon.

"Why did you bring me here?" he demanded breathlessly. "Bringing Sam back wasn't a mistake. And no one can ever make me think any different. If you were really Jessica, or my subconscious, either one, you wouldn't think I should have let my brother die."

She shook her head, her eyes soft for the first time. "No, it wasn't a mistake, Dean. Maybe you should have let him die, but sometimes the rules have to be broken."

"What do you mean?"

"Your memory's short, hunter. You and Sam. Not, you or Sam. Not Sam or you. You and Sam, Sam and you. _And_. You're a team, and if you're not a team… well, we'll get there."

This time it was the world that shifted, not them, and suddenly it wasn't him in the crossroads anymore, it was Sam, and in his hand was the Colt. A woman stood before him, her eyes a brilliant red. The Crossroads Demon.

They couldn't hear what either Sam or the demon were saying, though they could see their lips moving. Sam's face was that same calm, terrifying image from the black dog hunt ten years ago.

"He told me about this. And if you know what happened, there's no way you're my subconscious. I didn't see this."

"It doesn't matter what I am, Dean. As long as you realize."

He didn't answer, just watched the silent scene unfold. Sam appeared to be getting angrier, waving the Colt in the demon's face. She didn't seem fazed, even by one of the only things in the world that could kill her. But she stared confidently at the young hunter, not losing his gaze even as he looked down, disappointed, angry, disillusioned.

The shot actually sounded out in the otherwise silent night, and Dean jumped, horrified by what he had seen. Jessica continued to stare on coldly as the Crossroads Demon fell backwards, dead and still stunned.

"Son of a bitch," Dean whispered. "How could he do that?"

"What, kill the evil bitch who taunted and teased you as you gave her your soul? You underestimate how much your brother cares about you, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean agreed mindlessly. "But it was so… cold."

Jessica snorted. "What, colder than your yellow-eyed demon killing me just because it wanted Sam hunting again? Colder than that demon threatening to skin Evan Hudson, when all he wanted was for his wife to live? Colder than any of the millions of evil things demons and other monsters have done in the thousands of years they've been around?"

"Yeah, but Sam's… he's not… is my brother still my brother, Jess?"

She looked at him, her gaze cryptic. "Is Sam still the same man he was before he died? Of course not, Dean. He died, for crying out loud! Do you expect anyone to come through that unscathed? Without nightmares? Even if he doesn't remember anything, the idea that he was _dead_ is enough to twist anyone slightly. To make them angry, scared. Could you deal with the fact that you died?"

"I did," he spat. "And I didn't go around killing demons. Well, not like that."

"Correction," she told him harshly. "You almost died. Your body was still breathing, living, turning about in its little circle of life. You were the walking unconscious, not the walking dead."

"So, what, the fact that Sam died… the way he just shot that demon was-."

"Desperate," Jessica cut in, glaring. "He's desperate, Dean. You gave up your own life to bring back his. He feels guilty, the man he has always looked up to is dying for him. And when you're gone, he'll be all alone. Your dad's gone, your mum, me… and now he's losing you too?"

Dean swallowed, and opened his mouth to reply. Then he closed it, unable to think of what to say. "I never thought of it like that," he finally told her quietly. He rolled his eyes at himself. "The idea never even crossed my mind. I mean, he's strong, he is, he could get through it."

She barked a laugh. "Get through it? If you really think that, you don't know your brother as well as you should. Even at Stanford, where everyone else was a freak, a stranger, someone wanting to fit in, he _didn't_ fit in. And you think he'll fit into the real world? He's a hunter, Dean, just like you."

"And he's going to hunt forever, isn't he?" Dean asked, interrupting her. He looked down, ashamed slightly.

"Maybe not forever," Jess told him softly. "But certainly for a long time. Nothing lasts forever. But I think maybe you're getting it now."

He nodded. "Me and Sam. That's what it is. But me, making that deal… if it wasn't bad, what's the problem?"

"The problem is, Dean Winchester, that you refuse to let Sam talk with you about it. So he goes behind your back determined to find any means necessary to keep you alive, just like he did with the Crossroads Demon." She bit her lip. "Which brings us to the future."

She clicked her fingers.

* * *

This time he managed to stay upright, becoming – dare he say it? – used to the whole shifting through time.

This time it was day, and it was bright, and the world was silent. But somehow, that made everything worse.

They stood in the middle of an abandoned town, street lights still flashing down the other end of the road, several cars left with doors wide open, as if the occupants had fled without thinking. Nothing was damaged, nothing was ruined, and yet the town still stank of death.

Jess crinkled her nose at it all as Dean took it all in with a gasp, finally turning to her when his eyes could take no more.

"How far into the future are we?" he asked in a whisper, almost afraid to give his voice any volume, worried it would bring something terrible down on them. Even if they were just ghosts.

Jess shook her head. "A little over a year."

Dean swallowed. "So I'm dead, then?" He said it with a little hope, a little fear, a little grief. Jess looked around to him, her eyes distant.

"Does it matter?" she asked him gently. "You and Sam, Dean, you and Sam. Your brother knows that. I think you know it too, which is why you made the deal. You just don't know you know it, which is why you offered up your own life?"

"What else could I have given?" he snapped at her, and she looked away, but didn't answer. She sighed instead, but didn't speak.

"What happened?" Dean asked after a moment, looking around again, looking for any sign of life. But there wasn't even a lick of wind, no clouds… even the sun appeared to be invisible, with only the brightness a sign that it was there.

"You lose the war, Dean. The whole world goes to hell."

His jaw dropped and he turned to face her again. "No way. No. No! It's not possible, not unless… not unless we're both dead…" And he trailed off, looking around again. "Oh God, Sammy's dead as well?"

She cried out with exasperation. "You just don't get it, Dean! Dead, alive, the way you're going, it doesn't matter! With both of you refusing to talk about what's happening in here -." And she gave him a hard poke over his heart, strong enough to hurt. "You're going to lose each other long before you die!"

She cried out again, turning away and walking a few steps before looking at him again. "Option A, Dean. You die. Sam… well, he gets angry. Very angry, and he goes after the bastards who killed you. He doesn't get very far before they catch him and slit… his… throat. He doesn't even try to stop them."

Dean flinched, but said nothing. Jessica would have just talked right over the top of him anyway. "Option B. Sam weasels out of the deal, and everyone knows it. He drops dead, you don't last much longer. Because you don't fight back either."

She crossed her arms and sighed, looking down. "You're nothing without him, Dean. But the way you're going, refusing to talk to him, refusing to let him in… you're the one killing him. He wants to help, he wants to lash out at something, just like you did when John sacrificed himself for you. He wants to turn it all around, cause he can't handle life without his big brother. Without the last good thing in his world."

Dean was silent for a moment. "So which one is it?" he asked finally, needing a chance to think over what she had just shoved at him. "A or B?"

She shook her head and bit her lip. "Neither. At this rate, it's C."

And she turned to watch the street again. Dean turned with her, and as he did, a tall figure came into view.

"Sammy," he whispered. And he wasn't the only one. Wasn't the only Dean.

An older looking version of himself suddenly appeared next to Jessica, and they both turned to look at him. He looked tired, grey, stretched. Like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He stared down the road, eyes tearing up, with grief, with guilt.

And then the world shifted and future Dean, and future Sam stood, three feet from each other, barely twenty feet from Dean and Jessica. The two watchers did so silently, taking in the sight. Dean couldn't believe it. Sam had changed. Changed… changed badly.

His hair was shorter, his eyes more sunken, and darker. His skin was pale, stretched, bulging, and he stared down haughtily at his older brother. Down his nose, like he never had before.

"Sammy, what happened to you?" future Dean asked, which was exactly what the younger version wanted to know. What the hell had happened?

The darker Sam sneered, crossing his arms. Dean could see what looked like cuffs burned into the skin of his wrists.

"It's your fault, Dean. This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't made that deal."

It wasn't said with anger, or guilt, or grief, or anything that Dean would've associated with the Sam that he knew. No, it was said with glee, and edge, and with the intention to hurt and dig deep. Future Dean flinched.

"I did what I thought -."

Future Sam laughed, a vicious chuckle that came from deep in the throat. "What you thought was best? Right? Don't lie to me, Dean. Don't lie to yourself! You did it all for you, because you were so scared of being alone."

He laughed again, and future Dean's shoulders slumped, the life and fight visibly disappearing. The maniacal laughter died down slowly, and Sam looked down at his brother, mirth doing a deadly dance in his shadowed eyes.

"You know what," he muttered in the overbearingly silent world. Then he moved fast, faster than Dean had ever seen him move before, and the next thing any of them knew, there was a knife sticking out of future Dean's stomach. The hunter fell to his knees.

They all looked down, all four, as Sam stepped back, blood all over his hand, the blade still impaling the older man. Dean, both of them, looked up at their little brother, finding no mercy or remorse, just satisfaction. And as Dean Winchester's life bubbled from between his lips, the young man leaned down and whispered his final words to his big brother.

"You are alone, Dean. You've always been alone."

And then everything mercifully faded, and the travellers left that dying world, that Hell on Earth, and Dean took his first breath since seeing his dark brother. He turned to Jessica.

"What the hell?" he asked. "Sam was… what happened…"

"He has to go behind your back," she told him. "Because you have forbidden him to try and get you out of that deal."

"So what, he offered himself up, instead? He wouldn't do that, he wouldn't make my sacrifice meaningless."

"No, you're right. He doesn't, either. But he's a desperate man. And desperate men call for desperate measures."

"What did he do?" Dean demanded.

She looked up at him, stern but gentle. "He walks into Hell itself, Dean. He walks into Hell and demands that you be released from your deal. He demands that the deal be undone, nearly killing the devil himself."

"What?" the older man gaped. "Sam went down there, _willingly_?"

"Sam _goes_ down there willingly," she answered. "The whole staying there part isn't so voluntary."

"What?" Dean repeated, going pale. "They trap him down there?"

"What else do you expect from demons?" she demanded. "Sam goes to walk away, goes to walk out of Hell, just like he walks in. But he isn't allowed. They're clever, sneaky, double-crossing. Not a part of the deal, they tell him. Sam, who thinks he's so clever by marching into their territory, ends up handing himself over."

"What happens to him?" Dean asked, needing to know, even if the idea was ripping him apart from the inside.

"It's bad enough for a spirit down there," Jessica told him. "But for someone, with human flesh, with skin and bone… it's… well, it's hell, Dean. And that much pain, and horror, and suffering… it would twist anyone. Turn anyone. They trap him down there, they torture him until he can't even wish he was dead anymore, and he comes out of it a demon, just like those fallen angels millennia ago."

"And he went down there because I wouldn't talk to him?" he asked, not willing to believe it. But Jessica nodded.

"Absolutely. Sam has his own issues. He doesn't want his time with you to end. But now… you're making every remaining minute agonising."

"Wait," Dean interrupted. "So, even if I talk to him, about all this, I still die?"

She grinned at him. "I thought you didn't mind," she teased him. "But yes, you still might. But you never know… you and Sam, you can handle anything, if you put your mind to it."

He smiled down at her, actually getting it now. Actually getting everything, every indescribable reason. "Me and Sam, right. Only way to save the world."

"You and Sam."

And she snapped her fingers.

* * *

Dean sat up fast, coughing and dizzy, shoving Sam off of him at the same time. He winced hard, feeling the back is his head and finding it all sticky. He looked at his bloody hand, trying to turn the two of them into one like they were supposed to be, before looking up at his relieved little brother.

And then, remembering that dark Sam of the future, he reached out and yanked his brother into a tight hug.

Even shocked, Sam caught on quickly, though judging by the pat on Dean's back, he was worried.

"Uh, thought I was meant to be the anxious one," he mumbled before pulling away. "You okay, Dean. You hit your head pretty hard."

Dean grinned. "I know. Looked pretty bad." He ignored Sam's curious look. "But it's all good. We can handle it. Me and you Sam. We can handle anything."

* * *

So what did you think? I personally wasn't happy, it was longer than I wanted it, and it didn't really do what I wanted it to do. But that might have been cause I wrote it…

Merry Christmas Everyone!


End file.
